


thicker than water

by nevermordor



Category: One Piece
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Friendship, Gen, Loyalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 17:04:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16268585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nevermordor/pseuds/nevermordor
Summary: One day, he supposes, they’ll catch him. One of his numerous enemies, or another aspiring warlord, or the World Government itself. Nothing lasts and he won’t live forever. One day they’ll try and take everything from him. They’ll take his name. They’ll shackle him in seastone and take his Devil Fruit. They’ll take his hands and his feet and his freedom, the air from his lungs, and his very own heart from his chest.They’ll take everything from him, but not his family. Because Trafalgar D. Water Law doesn’t have a family.--Trafalgar Law Week 6: Crew





	thicker than water

Trafalgar D. Water Law doesn’t have a family.

He has a name. Their name: his mother’s and his father’s, and now his too, to carry like a secret that he never asked for.

His name is a clumsy mouthful. Or else it’s a sigh: his mother brushing hair out of her eyes and fixing him with a look of weary — but loving, because she always managed to love him in spite of himself — exasperation after he gets sent home with another note about his behavior from Sister Mary Alice. “Trafalgar D. Water Law,” she says, “you have to try and get along with other kids, sweetheart.”

His name is too long. It doesn’t fit him properly. He says it aloud to himself in the mirror sometimes, late at night, when he gets up for a glass of water, slow and careful, “Trafalgar D. Water Law” and tries to recognize himself in it—  
  
  
_“I’ve heard the stories about you,” Jean Bart admits abruptly after they’ve brought him aboard the Polar Tang, after Uni has cut through the remaining manacle around his wrist. The heavy iron hits the floor of the infirmary with a dull rattle. Jean Bart winces, flexes his fingers._

_“Have you now?” Law asks with mild interest._

_“They say you’ve sacked over thirty ports in the past six months alone.”_

_“Okay,” Uni says, exasperated. “That one’s definitely a misprint, how would we even have had time to do all that.”_

_“And I heard on_ _Sabaody_ _that you eat the hearts you steal.” Jean Bart looks wary._

_Law grins. “There’s been a lot said about my reputation lately. That rumor’s new, though. It’s not bad,” he says to Uni. “We can definitely use that one in the future.”_

_Uni laughs. Jean Bart doesn’t. “You would let the world think of you as a cannibal?”_

_“I mean, this is the Grand Line. We do what we have to do.”_

_“You didn’t have to help Straw Hat,” Jean Bart says. “You didn’t have to rescue me.” His gaze is searching; Law returns it evenly. The Polar Tang’s engines hum as she shifts beneath the waves._

_“Only an idiot couldn’t see that it’d be a waste,” Law says finally, “leaving you to die as some Celestial shithead’s pack mule.”_

_“You know what I think?”_

_“I can only begin to guess.”_

_“For all their talk, I don’t think people know what kind of man you really are.”_

_“And what kind is that?” Law drawls, even as his chest tightens with brief, bracing caution._

_But Jean Bart’s beetle black eyes are crinkled at the corners, and for the first time since he’s boarded the Polar Tang, he smiles at Law, just a little. Law finds himself hesitantly smiling back._  
  
  
—as he and his reflection stare each other down.

Maybe, like his father’s white coat, he’ll grow into it; maybe someday he’ll earn it.  
  
  
  
  
He doesn’t have a family, but he has his own two hands. The nails are black with dried blood and crusted with chunks of hair and flesh from nameless, faceless bodies — he wouldn’t let himself look — as he claws free from the last heap of corpses piled along the borders of Flevance. The backs of them are flecked with scars, even after he rinses himself in seawater. He can’t scrub off the lingering blisters of Amber Lead.

In a way he’s glad for how his stained skin marks him. In a way, he’s needed to be marked like this his whole life because people could always seem to tell that he was just slightly Wrong. Now he can skip the guessing games. No more unfriendly mutters, no more birthday invitations that always manage to skip his desk, no more classroom bickering that his mom will scold him for, no more stupid, loud kids who can see something in him that’s ugly, something mean, something—  
  
  
_“—fucking awesome, man,” Shachi says yet again, leaning too far over the railing of the Polar Tang’s port deck. Law grabs the back of his jumpsuit before he topples over into the water. Shachi squawks in alarm but his gaze is still fixed on the ruins of the marine ship still ablaze behind them._

_“We’ll be submerging soon,” Law says pointedly._

_“How do you do that?” Shachi asks._

_“I find that pointing the cannon in the right direction before you shoot tends to help. We need to get below—”_

_Law pulls him toward the stairs. Shachi stumbles after him, head still turned toward the marine ship. “You were a step ahead of them the whole time. How’d you know what they were gonna do?”_

_“Instinct.”_

_“And when you hit their powder supplies on the first shot? I could see the captain’s face in the spyglass, dude, I thought he was gonna shit his pants.”_

_“It was just one ship,” Law replies as patiently as he can._

_Shachi finally looks at him: his face is flushed, his eyes wide. “Goddamn, that was so cool. You’re so fucking cool, La — I mean.” Shachi fumbles. He steps back, tugging at the brim of his cap. “I mean, uh. Captain. It was really cool, captain,” he says sheepishly._

_Law doesn’t really know what to do with that. “I couldn’t have done it by myself,” he says at last, which is the truth. Shachi’s face gets a little pinker, his eyes get a little wider, his smile gets a little less nervous. They head below deck and Shachi slings his arm suddenly around Law’s shoulders. Law doesn’t shrug him off._  
  
  
—not quite right. And then he remembers that all of the kids in his class are dead, that he won’t be sitting in Sister Bertha’s maths class next fall wondering if Tim Hastings is going to flick pencil lead at the back of his head because Tim Hastings has a collapsed skull where a bullet pierced it.

The rule in his father's house is you only get something once. If you lose it, then it’s gone for good, like when he misplaced his allowance, or when Lami forgot her toys at the park. If you’re careless enough to lose the things you care about, you don’t get a replacement. Except that his father is sprawled dead on the floor of his clinic and his house is in ashes. Law laughs but the sound that comes out of him is high and frantic and grating because he can’t remember the last time he used his voice. He makes himself stop and decides that he shouldn't laugh anymore.

He sits and looks out across the sea. Flevance still burns behind him, the glow of it reflecting gold and molten in the water’s surface. He doesn’t cry but he squints his eyes until his vision blurs, until the horizon and the ocean run together and for just a moment it looks like the whole world is on fire.  
  
  
  
  
He doesn’t have a family, but it’s easier than he thought it would be: to pretend otherwise for a little while. Doflamingo isn’t a kind man but it’s easy to pretend about that too. He reads them stories sometimes after dinner and remembers things like allergies and leaving the hall light on at night for Baby 5 and birthdays. Law turns eleven and Doflamingo gives him a knife with a gold inlaid handle because “A true pirate needs to be properly armed.” After cake he takes Law out to the courtyard, to a straw dummy he’s set up in the corner. He’s patient as he corrects Law’s stance and grip, shows him how to puncture lungs and slash stomachs. “What a vicious little thing you are,” Doflamingo says gloatingly, and maybe Law doesn’t get to have another family but maybe if he tries hard enough, if he makes himself useful—  
  
  
_“Captain,” Penguin says through the locked door._

_“I’m getting up,” Law says. “Alarm just didn’t go off.”_

_He’s been telling himself for almost half an hour now to get up. He needs to get up. He wants to. Every time he tries, though, he finds himself pinned: by the heavy ache behind his eyes from whenever he managed to sleep last; by his unwashed hair, and his dry mouth and his hot face and empty stomach._

_He hates this part of himself the most: the slow way it crawls over him, wraps itself around his neck, strangles his competence, his ability to think straight, all the things left in him of any use._

_No one gets to see him like this but Law also doesn’t suffer fools amongst his men. Penguin’s always been sharp._

_“I’m getting up,” he makes himself say again._

_“Okay,” Penguin says without missing a beat. “You want some coffee?”_

_Ordinarily, yes. Law’s stomach twists, achy and hollow and nauseous. “I’m fine.”_

_“Tea?”_

_Tea is better. Tea feels manageable. “Fine.”_

_“You want breakfast?”_

_Law’s stomach twists harder. “Not that hungry.”_

_“Did you eat dinner?” Penguin asks._

_Law shoves his face into his pillow and wants to scream and he hates that Penguin noticed, and grateful that Penguin noticed. He’s so hungry it hurts._

_“Maybe just some fruit, in case you feel like it later,” Penguin suggests._

_“Fine.”_

_“Then I’ll be right back,” Penguin says cheerfully. The floor shifts as Penguin turns to leave and Law’s gripped by a burst of panic, because he can already see how this will play out: Penguin telling the rest of the crew that he’s not feeling well even though on the outside he doesn’t look ill, doesn’t really seem ill at all. And then the next time this happens, there will be knowing looks exchanged behind his back. It will become a recognizable pattern, make him predictable, make him weak, makes them aware of just how truly unfit he is._

_Law swallows around the tightness in his throat. “I’m going to get up, you know,” he manages to say._

_“Yeah, captain,” Penguin says, “you are.”_  
  
  
—if Doflamingo could see some sliver of potential in him, then maybe he’d let Law stay.   
  
  
  
  
He doesn’t have a family.

He has a Devil Fruit, one of the strongest in the world. Which is funny because he doesn’t feel strong — not at all. But he already decided he shouldn’t laugh anymore so instead he screams into the frozen air until it feels like his throat will bleed, until his lungs seize up with gunsmoke and the biting cold of winter.

He has a Devil Fruit that can fix anything, and it must be true because when he looks down at his hands he can see the Amber Lead scars already beginning to fade. It must be true but it’s too late to fix himself, to fix what’s broken in him. He knows he’s broken because Cora-san loved him, and Cora-san couldn’t help but love broken things. He was too late to fix Cora-san too. Once you lose something, you don’t get a replacement.

His face is cold with tears and snot freezes inside his nose and he chokes and sputters and stumbles through snow drifts. If he can’t heal and fix, and if he is broken—  
  
  
_The bear’s probably at least a year old but it looks much younger. Its fur is matted in places and its skin hangs loosely off its tiny frame. Law can count its ribs._

_“It’s just a dumb bear,” one of the boys, the one with the pom pom on his hat, grumbles._

_“It was already like that when we found it,” the other boy says, voice thick. His nose is still bleeding where Law broke it._

_Law knows that you’re not supposed to feed wild animals, that it does more harm than good, that people do it anyway out of kindness. He knows that kindness feebles, that it kills._

_The bear growls listlessly as Law comes closer. Its eyes are unfocused and glassy and its front paw is a little bit crooked, like it’s broken and hasn’t been set properly. Law kneels in the snow and pulls out leftover meat from a bird that he caught and cooked the night before. The bear makes another noise, a whine in the back of its throat._

_“You have no reason to trust me,” Law says. “I realize that.”_

_The bear looks at him for a long time. Law holds his hand out and the bear takes the meat from his hands with surprising daintiness. “Slower,” Law says as the bear chews quickly and leans back in for more. “Eat slower or you’ll make yourself sick.”_

_He gives the bear as much as he reasonably can. When he starts to his feet, the bear lets out another little whine and lunges. Law scrambles for his old knife but the bear only pushes itself into his arms, snuffling as its presses its big snout to Law’s chest. Its very soft and very warm. When Lami was born, his mother asked if he wanted to hold her. “Say hello to your baby sister, Law,” and then Lami was in his arms, tucked into a small pink blanket. She was so small and quiet._

_“It’s okay,” Law says. The bear ignores him, still snuffling hopefully for more food. He says it again anyway. “It’s okay,” and this time his voice cracks, high and awkward. At some point, while he wasn’t paying attention, he turned another year older. “It’s okay,” Law says, and scratches the bear tentatively behind one of its little ears. “It’s okay.”_  
  
  
—then he will be broken like a blade is. He will be savage and he will cut throats and slit veins and kill until he is worn down, until there is nothing left of him.  
  
  
  
  
For the third time in his life, he shouldn’t be alive. Yet somehow through grace, through providence, through pure fucking dumb luck: he is.

The jungles of Zou are humid and rainy. His shirt sticks to his back and he wipes sweat from beneath the brim of his hat. The vivre card flutters in his palm and he turns right, ducks beneath a patch of vines, slips between clusters of mangroves.

Bepo cries when they finally spot each other. “Law,” he wails, “Law, I missed you.”

“Jeez, Beps, let the guy _breathe,_ ” Shachi admonishes even as his arm settles into its usual resting place around Law’s shoulders. Ikkaku has a cut on her cheek and Uni’s grown his afro out. Penguin’s sunburned. Looking at them all together like this, he realizes that he never really expected to see them again.

The Polar Tang gleams in the afternoon, a thing of cold, solid beauty. Shachi barks orders and his crew scrambles aboard, calling out to one another and laughing as they make her ready for his inspection. When he steps aboard, they snap to attention: clicked heels and hands folded behind their backs and chins up. They watch him with faces still flushed in exertion and eyes bright with anticipation.

“What are your orders, captain?” Bepo asks.

Law looks out across the lagoon, the water so blue and sweet it almost hurts. “It’ll be Wano next, you know. And Kaidou. It’ll be more dangerous than anything we’ve ever done before.”

“Could be interesting,” Jean Bart offers.

“Yeah,” Penguin adds, grinning. “At least we won’t be bored.”

Bepo butts his head against Law’s shoulder. “Wherever you go, captain,” he says, “we’re with you.”  
  
  
  
  
One day, he supposes, they’ll catch him. One of his numerous enemies, or another aspiring warlord, or the World Government itself. Nothing lasts and he won’t live forever. One day they’ll try and take everything from him. They’ll take his name. They’ll shackle him in seastone and take his Devil Fruit. They’ll take his hands and his feet and his freedom, the air from his lungs, and his very own heart from his chest.

They’ll take everything from him, but not his family. Because Trafalgar D. Water Law doesn’t have a family.

He has a goddamn crew.

**Author's Note:**

> written for [trafalgar law week 2018](https://trafalgarlaw-week.tumblr.com/). go check out all the other cool stuff people have made!


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